Rasma Haidri offered sessions on May 16 & 23.
Rasma Haidri (www.rasma.org) has worked various jobs, from night shift pea line at a canning factory in Wisconsin to lecturing at a university in Hawaii. She grew up in the American South as a first-generation South Asian and second-generation Norwegian American, then lived in Wisconsin, France, and Hawaii before making her home in the Norwegian Arctic for twenty years. Since 2020 she has lived on an island in the Norwegian Sea. Pursuing a sense of place and the meaning of home is central to her writing, which has received awards in poetry, creative non-fiction, and fiction and appeared in journals such as Nimrod, Prairie Schooner, and Fourth Genre and literary anthologies and college textbooks in North America, India, UK, Norway, Hong Kong, UAE, and Israel. As an AWA certified workshop leader and writing mentor, Rasma uses prompts and meditation to help writers access the deep interior room where creative genius resides.
The three prompts used to produce this writing were a 10-minute guided meditation: Sitting in ocean, water all around…; a follow-up prompt: use a line from the ocean writing to begin a new piece; and a quickie: The stone was on the table…
Jump to Aggie Damron’s piece.
Jump to Laurel Joy Graceson’s piece.
Jump to Elizabeth Cockle’s piece.
Jump to Susan (Deepam) Wadds’ piece.
Jump to Brenda Jacobsen’s piece.
Jump to Jenn Pipp’s piece.
Jump to Rasma Haidri’s piece.
Untitled by Aggie Damron
Waiting for someone or something to come from outside to open the door to her roomful of secrets. There is nothing hidden that shall not be revealed – a Biblical statement one can hang onto that is a promise given.
But who is to reveal it all if not me?“ I and my Father are One; If you have seen me you have seen the Father.” What else needs to be said?
How about “If I go not away the comforter will not come?” Who is the comforter if not the keeper of the inner room? Who has the keys to the kingdom within? “The Kingdom of Heaven is Within,” so open out a way for the hidden splendor to be revealed – walk on out, spinning alchemical gold from the straw of hidden images and the words that need to be sung.
Untitled by Laurel Joy Graceson
Neither broken nor bait
So glad I did wait
For this phase of life to come.
So many hands
Over years,
Pulling and pushing.
Setting me out,
Or drawing me in.
Shattering my hollow bones of hope.
Fragile framework on which self to build.
Many times
The destroyer was me.
I
Now content
To live energy spent
As observant beauty…
Wisdom to share
For all who care
To stop and pick over me.
If none
That too is ok—
All part of my journey.
For there is still
Sun and Moon
And ocean glory
And my secret thoughts and words—
So many glorious words.
Words set on the framework of poem
Or
Penned love letter.
Round O’s
Are lifesaving.
Sharp pointed V daggers—
For I will live and never die.
My words contain me—
Poet adrift,
Aetheric Scribe.
As Long As My Feet Can Touch The Bottom by Elizabeth Cockle
As long as my feet can touch the bottom I can breathe,
watch sun streaks glinting like cracked glass, my toes
sinking in the sand, just so, stones masquerading as gems.
Waves soak the hems of my rolled-up jeans, no bikini
for this beach-goer, thank you very much. Weeds tickle
my shins and random sharp edges jab my arches.
“The tide can sweep you out to sea,” my grandma said
the day we rode a coach to Hunstanton, sand ridges
stretched as far as my eight-year-old eyes could strain
to a blue line scarcely darker than the sky, the tide
ebbed so far out, I could walk a mile into the ocean
and face no danger of drowning.
Grandma snapped photos of me with her Kodak—this,
long before smartphones became everything-devices—
running across the ridges in my navy swimsuit to show
my parents all was well. I wish I’d found seaglass,
plentiful here at Lake Ontario, a 3-D memento of beating
the tide. Who knows if I’ll ever visit Norfolk again?
Untitled by Susan (Deepam) Wadds
In those days, when I lived here, I would go to the ocean, a short walk, the salt air in my hair, spongey cedar underfoot, past the eagle in the tall fir, and follow the curved path past the twisting red-pink arbutus, to the first glimpse of ocean.
I’ve come back here, as if to home. The ocean surrounds this town. In any direction you go, the ocean will soon greet you. But this is just a visit because I have landed, finally. I went home, to where I moved nearly twenty-six years ago. After decades of searching I found the river. And called that home.
Twenty years later, I came here to this ocean town, believing one final time in something often referred to as love. As if it could be home. A soft-napped chair, a tiled table, an embroidered cushion, a fine new bed, tulip bulbs and broccoli seeds, plates with blue edges—me, nesting, it would seem. I thought it simple to leave, to land; believed my hands could loosen their grip, and go with him. (I admit, I called it love, but waves deposited me on shore, spitting sand, broken shells in my hair.)
Now, I’m visiting. I walk the shore. The ocean pulses its white fringe, thrusts silvery, worn logs onto rocky shores. I breathe in and gratitude swells in waves. I will go home again soon, humbled. It’s taken nearly seven decades to know that I carry home behind my ribs, and that the pulse, the steady pulse of the green-black river, matches mine.
(Sometimes, when those I love die, something like jealousy shimmers through me that they got to go home. I know only that house, body, love, friendship—all will be pulled back out to sea.) All I really want to say is it’s good to be here for a short while. And that this moment, this place, this body, is all I have right now. And it is enough.
Writing is Breathing, A Continual Flowing Rhythm like Flowing Water by Brenda Jacobsen
How often do I find myself in a room where I am not there? How often do I forget to breathe because I am distracted or tense? What keeps me from being present while I walk along the seashore? Breathing in joy. Exhaling worries or anything that pulls me out of the moment. It’s all about the ocean being present and dropping into her presence, seeing myself as the ocean. This thought alone is striking, for I am a fully alive human being. Breathing is a natural rhythm we inhabit. It’s second nature to breathe, like riding a bike or walking until we can’t. And even then, her gifts are eternal. It’s beneficial for me to remain close to the ocean and learn from her. She knows far more than me, and her generosity and strength know no bounds. The waves on the sea rise and fall rhythmically, and I never grow weary of her company.
Yet the language of the ocean is not there.
This phrase sits on the crest of a rising wave in my heart. Mother Nature is full of mystery and concrete truths. I want to say that I can view the ocean 10,000 times and still not grasp the many life lessons that she holds.
Yet the language of the ocean is not there.
I can smell the odor of fishy water at low tide and turn away. I can drink in seaside fragrances, the salty mist, and the fresh breeze blowing across the ocean like a song.
Yet the language of the ocean is not there.
I can touch the cold Atlantic waters with my hands, step further into her, and swim. I can feel the waves refresh my body.
Yet the language of the ocean is not there.
Hearing thunderous waves crash against my thin eardrums as the ocean hits the jagged coastline is music to my ears. Mother Natures’ well-worn and beautiful symphony. Hearing seagulls squawk their complaints and fog horns bellowing their low plaintive tones through a laborious fog are familiar and rich sensorial moments for me.
Yet the language of the ocean is not there. Perhaps the ocean is a parable. How can this be? She holds profound mysteries and lessons and sometimes I forget. I forget her, I forget us. Through ocean meditation, I realize essential truths that connect me onwards into the heart of living. My appreciation of everything on this sacred earth, natural or otherwise, is rooted in my breath. Seeing, hearing, touching, and smelling all play a significant role when we visit a beach or sit down to write, but our very breath is the central focus for all of life. Breathing into the moment brings me into the present. Becoming present in the ocean’s presence wherever I find myself. Without this thought and gift, I would not be here at all.
warning by Jenn Pipp
*dedicated to the ones with wings*
The stone was on the table
The fire was on the floor
I tried to tell you clearly
But you always needed more
The sky was spinning birds
The earth was crying trees
I tried to whisper softly
But still you didn’t see
The stars were aching aster
The dark was brightly dim
I spoke to you with vigor
But you only looked at him
I packed up my belongings
I gathered up my kin
Someday you’ll know my leaving
But it’s unclear to say just when
Untitled by Rasma Haidri
There were days like this, sun-dappled green. You didn’t know they were wet. This water is not like water. Just as you, solid as you think you are, are mostly water. Did you know? See, there’s a horse in a field, summer sun dappling the leaves and horse and you into a watercolor framed by trees. No contour between you and the horse, no color to distinguish horse from rider. This is not about color. Memory is not a Crayola box. That is not how you will make your mark. You have to see with new eyes. If you see only with your own eyes, what then? You’re in a crayon box, trying to pick out perfect colors instead of seeing with new eyes of water.
No color to distinguish horse from rider
but the blazing white saddle
like light forging forces of energy —
or glue — white glue joining
horse and rider — not everything you see
has to be a proclamation
of metaphor sometimes
a horse & rider & glue
are enough
and lightning flashing around is just to get your attention
Thank you for joining us for Write Around the World!
For the rest of the summer, watch our blog! We are sharing writing from AWA’s yearly marathon fundraiser, which happened this year all-online throughout the month of May.
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